When Robert quietly admitted, over burned toast and bad coffee, that he’d already priced hotel rooms and offered to pay, the whole weekend snapped into focus like a cruel little magic trick. Patrick hadn’t just forgotten to ask me; he’d blocked every exit. He’d told his parents I’d be “hurt” if they stayed anywhere else, told Kevin I “always complain at first,” and told Linda he knew how to “handle” me. I booked the rooms anyway, six hundred and eighty-four dollars from the savings account we’d sworn to guard together. Watching them carry their suitcases past me, down the stairs, felt like ripping a bandage off a wound I hadn’t admitted was there. Later, when Patrick stood in our kitchen, red-faced and shouting about “our agreement,” I slid his own text across the table like evidence in a trial. Don’t waste money on rooms. Clarissa always complains at first. Once everyone’s here, she’ll get over it. I know how to hand… Continues…